Out of Anguish (NurseMaxine and Traveler)

[NurseMaxine]

Awentia (Fawn) had lived in the small Delaware village all her life. The Delaware were a proud but peaceful people, who didn't trouble their neighbors that is until the white man arrived and brought with him his quarrels. At first, the pilgrims stayed close to the seacoast and left the forest to the native peoples, who were more at home with nature, and didn't seek to bend it to their own will, but as the greed of the European Kings taxed their own brothers beyond what they could bear, they also brought their guns and their tyranny, and soon the peace of everyone was threatened.

Awentia lived a happy childhood with her mother and brothers and sisters, her father though was a chief and so was consumed with the affairs of the village and the training of young braves. The women were expected to be useful, bear children, and generally to care for them at least until they were twelve, when boys began their training as braves. The girls began to prepare for married life as soon as their mothers thought they were ready and Awentia was no exception. She was a beautiful girl with smooth brown skin, Raven hair and jet black, almond shaped eyes, her chin was tapered, and her body was slender, but shapely, and she was a tiny thing at barely 80 pounds. Her hand s were tiny and delicate. Well suited to giving care. She was promised to Ahmik (beaver) and would marry him as soon as he could earn her price. As the daughter of the chief though, the price was high. It would cost Ahmik many pelts to pay for her.

Awentia looked forward to that day since being age 16 she was reaching the age where a maiden was expected to marry and having children. She cared for her infant brothers and sisters as her mother was a very fertile woman who brought great honor to the chief for his 14 sons. He had but 3 daughters who, though they were highly sought after, would have been happily traded for just one more son. None of this concerned Awentia for she had assumed that nothing in her life would change from the normal situation which she had known all her life. All would change though when the roar of British cannons and musket fire disrupted the camp on a sunny afternoon. In barely an hour, the entire village was laid waste, and all that remained of it were smoldering fires, trampled huts and dead bodies. Red coats, revolutionaries , and Delaware all died with equal ease when a cannon fired.

When the guns fell silent, she looked around and saw nothing, no one alive. She alone was the sole survivor, or so it seemed. That is until she heard a weak moan coming from a crumpled uniform that lay in a heap. She crawled through the piles of debris to the sound and there found a soldier barely breathing and moaning with pain from his many wounds. She lifted his head to her lap and instinctively rocked him gently, trying to give him comfort. She was clinging to the only thing she knew, giving comfort.

 

[Traveler]

"Are they out there?"

"Hush," the leader of the Revolutionaries' scouting party scowled at the young man who huddled in the bush beside him. It was bitter cold that morning, the mist rolling across the fields like fingers portending death. The night had been clear and cold, and the men who had traveled to meet the Redcoats had sacrificed personal comfort to fight for a chance at a life of freedom from British rule.

The young man wiped a nervous hand across his nose. He'd done much in their efforts to gain freedom from the basted British. He'd run messages, delivered supplies, and repaired gear, but this was the first time he felt like he might be asked to take a life. It was different when lives were at hand, and even more so when faced, at twenty summers, of having one of those lives lost possibly be your own.

His fingers burned cold despite the two layers of woolen gloves he wore. The wool made his fingers clumsy though, so he had removed the tips long ago. His grey tunic didn't cover his neck high enough and when he put up his hood he felt like he couldn't see. It was either be warm and blind or able to see and frozen like the rivers were beginning to set. His eyes were hooded by strong brows, reminiscent of the hawk's, and though his jawline had grown wide and he had been shaving much longer than he could remember, his dimpled chin and the open way he looked at the world revealed how young he truly was.

Comfort would have to wait. Today was the day they had been told that the Redcoats were planning on the attack, so today was the day that they had to be stopped.

Zachariah Braun tried to still the shivering as he waited, and when the order was given to run back to the others and tell them that the enemy had been sighted he felt his aching, cold limbs protesting until they had warmed up enough to stop the pain. When the fighting finally broke out it was chaos. The ground explode where cannons had hit beside him, sending the shock of impact up his long legs. Next to him he felt the man's head explode when a round ball flew out of a musket and impact, and Zach's one thought was that the man's blood felt warm.

Warm.

He turned in slow motion to see the lower half of the man's head, still attached, working it's jaw as if to continue to call out 'Charge!'. In his shock he wondered if he even registered that he was dead, or if some part of the man still thought that he was part of the battle. Swords clashed, muskets exploded, even arrows flew. An Indian man with deep, sun-etched lines ran up to him with a long knife. He raised it to bring down the young Revolutionary, but a horse bolted beside him and trampled the native.

Zachary broke out of his shock and started to run. He didn't know which way he was running, just that he had to move or he would die.

He ran through the chaos. At one point he pulled someone off a horse who had started to beat at him with a stick of some sort. A few blurry moments of chaos later and he was wrestling on the ground with a Redcoat at least three stones heavier than himself. He remembered the frantic clawing, the hitting, and then he remembered the way the blue sky had looked as it began to turn dim in his eyes.

Pain. So much pain...

He tried to push the heavy weight off himself. There was a face, a kind one... but Zachary couldn't focus. He felt his head being lifted and a soft pillow placed underneath. "Hel-help me," he whispered. His lips were cracked and dry, his eyes swollen, and his body felt like he had been trampled by a thousand horses. "Please."

 

[NurseMaxine]

Awentia sat there a moment rocking slowly on her knees in the mud,  her tiny fingers running through long brown hair of the man that now lay in her lap moaning softly and asking for help in a language she didn't understand. His hair was matted with blood  and she very gently pushed the strings of it from his face.  For that few moments her world had collapsed around her and now her hands and his face were all she acknowledged.  His skin was pale compared to hers  and most of his face was covered  by hair, something she had never experienced up close seeing that none of her tribesman had any significant facial or body hair. She ran her fingers through it almost in amazement.

Suddenly a cold blast of icey wind jarred her out of her mental cocoon.  The village, now the remains of a battle field was cold, and winter was tightening its grip. She had to get out of there, and him with her if he was to survive.  It was eerily silent.  Even the birds whose songs had been ever-present in her life up to now were either gone or silent. Only the howl of the cold wind through the surrounding trees, and the moans of the man could be heard.  The smell was that of gunpowder and smoke, and freshly turned earth. The man had fallen on the remains of hut, which when standing had been made of  bent green tree limbs lashed together over which the hides of deer had been stretched and tied in place.  He lay between two of the limbs.  Looking around, the glint of a bayonet stained in blood caught her eye  and she pulled it from the dead fingers which still gripped it and began to cut away at the hides, and then the leather thongs which held the tree limbs together.  When she was through, both by luck and ingenuity, what remained was a very serviceable litter.  She only hoped she had the strength to drag it and his weight, which was about twice her own, through the rubble that remained of the village.  She cut free the rest of the hides that had made up the hut and covered the man to keep him warm, before struggling to pull the litter.  Though she fell repeatedly over debris, bodies, and overturned earth, she found that with effort she could move him .   She knew where she was headed as it was a familiar journey made every day by the women of the village to wash clothing, and gather water. Perhaps a half mile from the village, along a little stream was a cliff and in its side was a hollow, a shallow cave really, where she had taken refuge from the heat on many a summer day. She hoped now that it would hide them and offer protection from the cold, and the animals, especially bear, which would soon scavenge what remained of the village.  As she reached the edge of the woods a bit of shiny metal caught her eye she stopped and picked it up and found it was a small pot, apparently carried there by a British soldier, who clearly no longer needed it.  This made her think and she scurried around the area, which was littered by burning debris collecting hot embers in the pot.  Though she knew how to kindle a fire, these would save a great deal of time and might ensure a fire was possible when it might not otherwise be.  A night in this cold, even in the shelter of the cave might be too much for the man she was trying so hard to save. She secured the pot to the litter and moved on. Though the trip was arduous, she made steady progress and was at the stream just before night fall. 

To her great relief, she found that the cave was not only vacant, but was in a position to shelter them well from the wind.  She dragged the litter inside and set about building a fire at the entrance, where the smoke could rise, but it would still offer them warmth. She washed out the pot and then dipped a pot full of clear clean water from the stream.  After offering a cool drink to the man,and gently cradling his head to be sure he didn't choke, she drank her fill.  She then cut away a bit of soft chamois from the hem of her dress, and dipping it in what remained of the water, she began to clean up the man and try and discover where he had been wounded.  She could see little by the flickering fire-light, and finally gave up the effort in favor of rest. Laying half on her back, half on her side, she cuddled his head on her stomach and resting her head on his shoulder, fell asleep, being totally exhausted from the effort. Several times during the night she woke to the sound of his groans, and twice gave him water before continuing to cradle his head against her warm body.

 

[Traveler]

He woke momentarily when she was moving him. He saw the dead staring at him as he moved past them, their eyes dull and accusatory, and once he even thought that he saw his unit commander pointing at him while in the middle of a silent, eternal shout, but Alexander’s head pounded and he had to close his eyes to quell the feeling of nausea that welled up in his gut. A few times he felt himself stop, and he feared that he was being left for dead, but then the litter moved and he could close his eyes and sleep.

Once when he awoke his fingers felt at the wood and material of his makeshift litter. He was expecting rough woven fabric, but instead felt the soft stiffness of hide. Alexander frowned through the pain and tried to piece together who, exactly had him. There was no use in trying to turn and look at his litter-bearer; his body hurt so badly that he would not have had the strength to roll away if a man came at him with a bayonet. Every breath felt like the stab of a dull knife in his lungs, and the very effort of drawing his fingers along the fabric of his litter shot flames down his arms.

He heard the fire before he felt it. The crackling and the popping sound made him flinch awake, and once he adjusted his eyes he could see that they were in a cavern. He heard soft footsteps and moved his head slightly to see who was approaching. Somehow, the woman who was approaching seemed to have read his mind. She knelt and then helped him to lift his head, her gentle yet strong, tanned hands more than capable of suffocating him as easily as she moved the pot of water to his lips. He took a sip, then two, and shut his eyes as the cool salve rushed down this throat and spread its goodness across his chest. It felt like healing fingers were running over his body.

“Thank you,” his voice was foreign to his ears. It sounded weak, like the voice of a dead man. She seemed not to be offended by it, though, lifting up the same pot and drinking deeply. He watched the firelight flickering across the arch of her neck and though that she must have been some kind of Indian Angel come to rescue him. Either that, or he was stuck in some kind of Native purgatory, and as soon as he was healed she’d scalp him for the sins of his people.

She didn’t scalp him, though. She wiped at his face with a soft chamois, and when she was satisfied she laid down next to him. When she put her head on his chest he felt conflicted .Who was this woman? Why had she helped him?

He let the questions go, though, and found the strength to lift an arm and cradle her closer. It’s cold, he told himself, we just need to stay warm. But he knew that what he really needed was reassurance that everything was going to be alright. As far as he could tell they had been the only live persons on that battlefield, and the cold wind outside the cavern entrance told him that soon it would be dangerous to be without shelter and supplies. He experimentally moved his legs and found that one ankle hurt badly, but the other leg was just bruised. His body ached and it pained him to draw breaths, but he felt no piercing pains in his body that warned of internal injuries, and though his head hurt badly when he pressed against his brow and forehead, it seemed like there was nothing that screamed at him that he’d be dying in a few days.

There was so much blood on him. He explored as much as he could when he woke again and was both surprised and terrified to find the end of a thin stick protruding from the leg with the twisted ankle. The numbing burn of his thigh shrilled when his fingers moved the stick. Was that an arrow?

“Oh God...” his voice cracked as his mind understood the implications of the stick. An arrow had broken in his thigh, an arrow that might fester and cause him gangrene. That would mean he’d lose his leg or die. At this point he wasn’t certain that death wouldn’t have been the better of the options. What good was a man with no leg? Perhaps… perhaps it would not grow red and infected… but more people died from festering wounds then on the battlefields, and the memory of their cries haunted him as he drifted in and out of sleep, his mind now focused on the terrible chance that he’d not live to see the next season.

 

[NurseMaxine]

Awentia woke as he explored his wounded body. As she lifted her head her eyes went immediately to his, and her heart leaped in her chest as she saw light in them. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, but it was still dark and the fire was still burning slowly. She laid more wood upon it to make it burn brightly and then, picking up the pot of water and her bit of chamois she resumed her looking over his body now that she possessed the strength to continue. She unbuttoned the shirt from his chest and slowly ran her tiny hand over every square inch. His chest was well muscled, and though it was bruised his eyes showed her no sign of severe pain or concern at her touch. Seeing the blood soaked into his trousers, she unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants and started to explore the skin beneath. Finding the hole where the arrow had entered, she cleansed it as best she could. The entrance hole was small but bleeding, which she regarded as a good sign for as long as it bled of its own it was less likely to redden and rot. She followed the arrows path just under the skin all the way down to the ankle. It was just beneath the skin.

She knew well enough that she could not pull the arrow out . To do so would leave splinters behind and lead to a certain death. She looked at the man, her face having a sad but gentle look. "Uyo ayelodi (im sorry) osda adanedi nvwati (this is good medicine) she said softly in Cherokee. What she would do next would hurt him badly but might save his life. She had seen the medicine man do it before, and having butchered many an animal she was skilled with a knife. She picked up the bayonet and seeing the panic in his eyes, paused and rubbed her nose against his and kissed his chest gently. She washed the bayonet in the water and then heated it in the fire. She had seen the medicine man do this before, and hoped that as it had when he had done so, it would bring healing spirits upon the knife. She placed hs hand upon her thigh as if to give him something to hold and draw comfort from before again kissing his chest. She leaned over the injured thigh and slit the skin the entire length of the arrow in on mercifully quick cut, then lifted the arrow in one piece from beneath the skin. The grip of his hand on her thigh was terribly painful but she knew it was nothing compared to what the man had just endured. She got up and went to the stream, dipping clean water and pouring the cold liquid liberally over the almost thirty inch wound.

The hard part was over, what remained now was in the hands of the great spirit and she cuddled down beside him in an effort to keep him warm and offer what ever comfort she could. The fire was burning well now and it kept them comfortable for the most part. When it was light she would seek out some herbs. Though they would be scarce in winter she hoped at least to find some mint. Her hand gently massaged his chest in an effort to ease his pain. Tears stained her face, as she felt his pain in her heart. She had not wanted to hurt him, but she had felt that she must and now she quietly prayed that the great spirit would heal him.

 

[Traveler]

Her hands on his chest made his body shiver, and not from the cold. He wondered if she was going to kill him now that he was awake. Surely she’d want to hear him scream as she took her vengeance for the death caused by the White Men? He didn’t think that the savages differentiated between Redcoats and Revolutionaries, just like they didn’t differentiate between tribes. His breath shot into his lungs as she touched him lower and lower on his abdomen, until her slim hands rested on his belt. When she unbuckled his trousers his eyes widened in both horror and disbelief. She was a harlot! She was going to disembowel him and unman him in one swift movement!

His fear stilled him long enough to realize that she wasn’t going to kill him. Not yet. Her fingers worked his trousers down his legs, baring the bruises and the cuts, and then finally the entry point of the arrows. He had initially thought that the arrow had pierced him perpendicularly, but now he saw to his horror that the shaft ran under his skin like a giant parasite. How it had managed to follow the space between skin and muscle was beyond him. It meant that he was probably not as injured as he thought, but the chances of infection were greater.

The young man shook his head at her words. “What? I don’t understand you,” he shook his head, trying to figure out what kind of strange spell she might have been casting. Weren’t they all witches and evil savages? He was resigned to suffering a long and painful death from infection when she pulled out a bayonet. His eyes widened in horror. “No… no I don’t… please…” He swore she was going to put it through his heart, but instead she placed his hand on her thigh. Her warm, taut, slim thigh. He’d never touched a woman ‘there’ before, and his breaths slowed as his eyes were drawn to the place where his body and hers met.

A searing flame went down his leg causing Alexander to arch his back and scream out in pain. He gripped her like his hold on life depended upon it. He collapsed into a weak heap once she was done, and though the water stung it felt like a cleansing flame, and all he could do was pant while he waited for the torment to end. He sat up weakly when she went back to the stream, and he unlaced his boots and pulled them off, then he did the same to his trousers. The last thing he wanted was to put the bloodstained and filthy pants back on now that he had a long cut exposed to everything. He was only glad that the cold weather meant that the biting flies were less prevalent. They were known to torment a horse until it ran itself off a cliff in the effort to escape them.

For whatever reason she had helped him. She had taken him from the battlefield, brought him to shelter, and removed the arrow. He was still sitting when she returned. Behind her the sun was beginning to dim in the sky. She came to him then, adding wood to the fire and then spreading out the blanket she had found over their bodies before sliding in beside him. He didn’t know what to think of her. As they laid there, her hand on his chest in small, soothing circles, lulled him back to sleep. He woke later that night so see her eyes stained with tears and the sight moved him. Caressing her face gently with his opposite hand he bent his face up to kiss her forehead. “Thank you.” His voice was a whisper in the night. He drew soft strands of her long hair through his fingers and watched the inky tresses fall through his fingers like silky waves. It felt unreal. This morning he was poised to fight and now he was lying next to a woman he didn’t know. He had been plucked from the hand of death. She had plucked him. Somehow this woman, who had possibly lost her entire family, had seen him alive on that field and decided that she would save him. His head spun at the revelation.

He rested his head against hers and whispered ‘thank you’ again, but whether he was speaking to God Almighty or to the little squaw at his side was anyone’s guess. He wasn’t even sure who he was thanking.

The next morning he awoke and found her still nuzzled up to him. In the pale light of morning he could see her features better. She was pretty, in a strong, feminine way. She looked young enough to not yet be married, but certainly old enough to be looking for a husband. Her hair was long and thick, and her eyelashes brushed her cheeks like mink fur. He saw that she had a comely dress on, marred only by the places where she had torn from it to get a cloth for his cleaning. It struck him as sacrificial that she would take from her own clothing to clean his wounds. It reminded him of the lady who washed the Lord’s feet with her long hair. How had he been so lucky to have crossed paths with her?

 

[NurseMaxine]

Feeling the man move she woke again for possibly the tenth time that long night. This time he was awake and thankfully not writing in his sleep as before. Each time she had held him and struggled to keep him from opening the two foot long ugly red gash that her bayonet had created to remove the arrow. The wound was drying and weeping with serum, It needed to be covered with something clean. She looked at his pants. They were hopelessly soiled, so taking the bayonet she cut a strip of chamois from her dress from hem to waist, it was just long enough. She went to the river and softened and rinse it in the clear flowing water before returning and laying it over the gash. She spread it smoothly helping it to form to this leg and tied on with thin strips also torn from her skirt. The wound was now covered, and being chamois it would not stick to the wound and could be removed and washed. However, her dress now provided less warmth and even less modesty as it was open to her narrow waist. She was cold from the stream and she again snuggled against his uninjured thigh and side wrapping hers over his. Her warmest flesh pressed tightly against his hip. She laid her head again on his chest and pulled a bear skin over them to keep them warm. She rubbed her nose against his chin and sang an eerie soft melody that was obviously Indian and unknown to the man.

Her hands again played at the hair on his chest and stomach slowly, lightly moving over his now warm flesh. As her hand strayed randomly lower, she bumped his manhood, but this was not an occasion for shame but rather curiosity as she took it in her tiny hand exploring it with her fingers. She grinned with amazement and curiosity as it seemed to change form in her hand. She had no idea its higher function. She had only observed that in babies she had tended, that one kept it pointed away if you didn’t want to become wet. She held it gently like a stick. And just laid there quietly, gently and absent mindedly rubbing its smooth shaft in her hand.
She had loved how he had played with her hair before and hoped he would do so again. It had made he feel warm and maidenly, and the attention he gave her made her feel loved. This was a strange combination of feelings and it made her face and neck warm. The feeling was spreading quickly through her core and settling between her thighs. She getting damp and felt a distinct tingling. This was all so new and her heart beat like a little drum pounding in her chest. She looked up at him grinning and giggling, a direct response to the feelings welling up within her. Her eyes shown like a pair of black marbles.

 

[Traveler]

He moved in his sleep, first in agony over his leg, but then as his manhood swelled and hardened his dreams became more confusing. He felt the heat and panic of the battlefield as he ran in his dream. The dead bodies began to reach up and catch at his legs, but they were not all trying to hurt him. Not all of them. He felt some of them licking him as he passed, others touched him with longing fingers. Others stabbed at him with talons. He was sickened and thrilled, and beneath it all was pain.

Alexander slowly came to consciousness in the morning light. He felt a warm pleasure on his shaft, something that he had only felt before in the secret confines of a darkened room. His breathing was shallow and ragged as he collected his bearings. He could feel the little Indian woman snuggled up to him, her slim leg stretched over his. He felt his body being massaged in the most delightful way and realized with a shock that it wasn't his own hand doing the stroking, but hers.

His eyes widened. The heathen was touching him! She was seducing him!

He clamped his hand over her wrist with a shuddering “No no no no! What are you doing to me?” His grip was trembling; conflicted. He didn’t want her to stop but he knew that this was wrong. What she was doing was what boys did to themselves in secret shame in their beds. Girls didn’t do this! They certainly didn’t giggle and look at him with sparkly eyes as if it was something ‘normal’ that they did all the time… for fun.

“I can’t,” he gasped, knowing that she probably couldn’t understand, yet having to voice his thoughts. “I don’t--it’s not…” he shook his head, and finally whispered “I’m sorry” as he shook his head. His eyes said what his words couldn’t; he really enjoyed what she was doing, but it as something he couldn’t do. He’d be damned for sure, all the way to Lucifer’s fiery dungeons. She wasn’t his wife and she was a savage, and some of the people didn’t even think that 'they' were human. He feared for his soul and he also feared that the stories about them having teeth ‘down there’ were true – he’d never touched a woman let alone been touched, and certainly not like she was touching him now!

Something in her eyes told him that she couldn’t be rejected, not today. Alex drew her towards himself, still keeping his hand on her wrist, and put her hand on his chest. That was okay; he couldn’t see any reason he’d be damned for just holding her. “Here.” His other arm pulled her closer. He closed his eyes for a moment as he laid his head back down, stilling the breathing that had grown almost panicked. Now he felt more in control. He turned his face towards her and kissed the top of her head, his lips brushing her dark mysterious tresses in a soft apology. “I’m sorry.”